From: janus@greynet.net (janus znaiu)
Subject: --NEW STORY--"Jockstrap Matinee (The Next Morning)"--MM, cons
Date: Sun, 27 Oct 1996 09:32:30 GMT

Disclaimer: The following story contains
descriptions of sexual acts between consenting
adult males.  If that's offensive to you, or if you
are below the age of majority in your jurisdiction,
stop reading immediately.

Although this story appears to be set in North
America in the dwindling moments of the twentieth
century, think of it as a kind of science fiction.
The characters occupy a parallel reality to ours;
identical in every way except one. In their happy
world there is no such thing as HIV and they are
therefore free to exchange whatever fluids strike
their twisted fancies. In our dimension, be sure to
play safely!


JOCKSTRAP MATINEE-- The Next Morning
by janus znaiu

My bedroom was just around the corner from the kitchen, so I
awoke, as I did most days, to the morning sounds my roommates
made as they prepared to go to work. They were usually a fairly
quiet lot, taking pains to keep conversation low and avoiding
the use of major appliances, but I almost always woke up
anyway, at least for a moment or two. As I worked until late
and often didn't get to bed until three or four am, my side of
our bargain was to keep the noise down at night when they were
asleep. I daresay I'd given them occasional reason to sit up in
their beds and ask themselves what the hell I was up to
downstairs. But all in all, it was a good arrangement--
certainly the only way any of us could afford to live in a big,
well-appointed house in a trendy neighborhood.

Through a curtain of half-sleep, I listened as the last of them
split. I glanced at the clock--8:47am--hours early for me, but
I was feeling a bit restless and began to convince myself to
get up. My head was a little thick and I had that
too-many-cigarettes-last-night throat, but my stomach's pH
seemed stable enough. In short, I felt like I was about a
'three' on the open-ended hangover scale. Nothing some tylenol,
some soda water and plenty of ice wouldn't set right.

Glen, my overnight guest, was snoring softly near the opposite
edge of the bed; hunched up fetally on his side with his back
to me. He'd let me blow him and spray my spunk onto his tum the
previous night, but I didn't know exactly what to expect when
he awoke. During the entire episode he'd pretended to be asleep
(which was just ducky with me, if that's what he needed to do;
minor details like that rarely even slow me down). But what had
really touched me was that, just before we finally fell asleep,
he shed some of that compelling straight-boy reserve. He'd been
'comatose', while I'd spent over an hour making a midnight
smorgasbord out of his furry torso-- and I do mean all of it--
then, once the lights were off and the egos were folded neatly
at the foot of the bed, Glen had sidled on over, snuggled up
and actually said 'Thanks...' Now, it takes a whole tug-of-war
team pulling on my heartstrings to get me gushy; but shit, I'd
have rolled over and kissed him if I hadn't been so sure it
would freak him out.

Considering the amount of scotch and import ale Glen had
scoffed back at Seepy's Bar the previous night, I figured he
had at least another hour of shuteye in him, probably more. He
might have only been pretending to sleep while we were rubbing
weenies, but he was well and truly out of it now--fresh drool
stains on a guy's pillow have a way of conveying that.

I hauled myself up, grabbed a fresh pair of white jockeys from
the basket on the floor and padded upstairs to the bathroom,
where I had a quick shower and shave. While I lathered up, I
recalled my surprise and delight when I'd finally gotten Glen
naked. I discovered him to be wearing that heart-stopping,
absolute beaut of a beat-up jockstrap. How do you *not* do a
nose dive onto something like that?

I've always been a sucker for a guy in a nutnet that looks like
he's worn it since highschool, and the previous night had been
no exception. Glen had a fairly small dick for a cat with his
kind of long, lean runner's bod, but Lordy, did he have some
balls on him! I calculated that they must have outhung his dick
by a factor of three when he was soft.

My cock got three-quarters stiff in the shower from my
recollection of that frayed ol' jock, but I resisted the urge
to pound off a quick wad while I had it all plump and slippery.
If my spike-haired furcub didn't bolt, I'd certainly be on
board for a repeat performance--and I sure wanted to have a
good load built up if that was in the cards. By reflex, I
speculated on what boneheaded set of conditions he might put on
the situation if he did wind up staying to mess around.
Sometimes it's like that with married guys, but you learn to
work with what you've got.

Back at the bar, I'd gotten some inside poop from Seepy that
Glen had been very recently wed. Seepy used to tell me
everything back then; my bar tab covered half his alimony.
That Glen had a wife back in Ontario was a biographical detail
my new friend had chosen not to bring up in the course of more
than three hours of swapping life stories.  But I'd noticed
right away that Glen wore a gold band on his left hand.  I'm no
Hercule Poirrot, but a guy picks up on shit *that* obvious,
even when he's smitten.

My rationale in those situations is simple enough: I figure we
just aren't put here to judge how the next fella gets his nut.
We're here to make sure our own needs are all looked after; and
in such a way as to cause the least possible harm.  Now, if a
married cat can't get everything he needs from the little
missus, it's up to him to go out and find it--either that, or
learn to live with big chunk of himself missing and try to shut
the fuck up about it. But lots can't--Promise Keepers is full
of 'em.

I guess for guys like Glen, men whose work keeps them moving,
it's easier to be discreet. In a best case scenario, I had Glen
pegged for somebody who probably went into into his marriage
knowing exactly how he was going to work it all out.  And if
he'd laid his long, hairy self out on my futon for a
tongue-bath a mere month after his nuptuals, it sure wasn't
because I'd snuck into his starter home back in Ontario and
dragged him out of the marital bed.

I chuckled to myself as I stepped into my soft, classic
y-fronts-- I'd entertained my share of gay divorcees before,
but Glen was my first gay newlywed. I laid out some towels, a
disposible razor and new toothbrush for him and went back
downstairs, hoping for the best.

I went straight to my room to check for signs of life. A swell
of chagrin hit me broadside when I opened my door to find Glen
not only out of bed, but gone altogether.

'Guess he's just not good at long goodbyes' I thought, a little
angry for letting myself daydream that he'd stick around. I
shook out the duvet a bit more briskly than it deserved, noting
that in his haste, Glen had even left his lighter and his socks
behind. By the time I'd gathered up the previous night's
glasses and made my way to the kitchen I was in a light funk,
but nothing I couldn't deal with.

As it happened, I didn't have to deal with it. I rounded the
corner and nearly dropped the glassware. My heart leapt when I
found Glen poking around in the fridge, his wrinkled shirttail
dragging on the tiles where he squatted.

Glen jumped up and wheeled about in one lithe movement when he
heard me put the glasses on the countertop. He shot me a broad,
disgustingly peppy smile from under that chaotic black
brushcut. His heavy brows animated, boyish, he shook the empty
Half-and-Half carton he'd found, "Morning! Got any more cream?"

Hard put to pass up an opportuntity for an exchange of smutty
innuendo, I bit my lip.

"I think there's some in the other fridge," I told him, as if
he'd been helping himself to the contents of my kitchen all his
life. I eyed him uneasily. "Uhm, how do you, uh... feel" I
asked, wondering how he'd think I meant it.

"Fine, except my head feels a little light... how many shots
*did* I put away last night?"

Here it comes, I thought: 'I don't remember a thing....' "I
wasn't really keeping count," I told him.

"I checked my wallet. I dropped nearly fifty bucks in that
fucking bar." Glen said, patting his back pocket, "I must have
been behaving like a sailor on shore leave..."

"In most ways; based on the ones I know... " I assured him, but
in fact, all of the sailors I know are far more inclined to be
reciprocal than he'd been.

Glen poured cold, stale coffee, left over from the roomies'
breakfast, into a mug and took it to the microwave.

I gasped. "Oh God," I told him, "don't nuke that mud! I'm going
to make us a fresh pot," I said, plugging in the grinder,
adding, "if you'd like..."

"Damn right I'd like! Can't start the day without my mug o'
Jo!" Glen said, far more brightly than I thought possible of
someone who'd so recently done so much for Scotland's balance
of payments.

Now, if there's something my neighborhood had it was coffee
joints--one intersection, less than a block away, had a cafe on
all four corners. Call it a Vancouver thing, but I'd estimate
that within a five minute walk from my door, Glen might have
been able to purchase a coffee from any one of three dozen
vendors. So naturally, I took the fact that he prefered to stay
and have some with me as a very good sign indeed. I decided to
push my luck a bit.

"I've set some stuff out for you in the bathroom--if you'd like
to freshen up." I can be delicate when I try.

Glen had been reading cut-out comic panels stuck onto the
fridge door and spun smartly on his heel, "Freshen up? Girl, I
need hosing down! Mercy! I've still got your crusty old pecker
tracks in my stomach hair!"

Now there was something! Not only did Glen acknowledge that he
had some inkling of what went on between us the previous
night--he was using genuine urban faggot-speak to tell me.
Before I was able to react, he shot up the stairs, shirt-tails
flapping--and with much less clatter than he'd made the night
before, just before passing out.

And what had *that* been all about anyway? If he was as
conversant with the homosexual argot as he seemed--enough to
refer to me as 'girl' and dried ejaculate as 'pecker
tracks'--what had been the point of his playing dead while I
ate him? Did he have multiple personality disorder? The
easy-going, pleasantly goofy, audio tech I'd met in the bar the
night before had morphed into some whorehouse parody of Bette
Midler, trapped inside a fuzzy studlet. A very complex
individual was using my shower, that was certain.

While Glen showered, I whipped him up a quick breakfast of two
soft-boiled eggs, some toasted baguette, and a small bowl of
fruit salad with yoghurt. Not inclined to squander what was
shaping up to be a golden opportunity to have another roll in
the hay with him, I loaded his food and the carafe of coffee
onto a tray and carried it into my room, arranging everything
on the small cafe table in the bay window. Despite his bizarre
outburst in the kitchen, I decided he was still far too butch
for a napkin ring or a bud vase; Martha Stewart be damned.

When he came back downstairs, Glen had on a white terry
bathrobe belonging to one of my roommates, which he'd doubtless
found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It came to just
above his knees and when he sat down on the opposite side of
the table, it allowed me a mouth-watering panorama of pale
inner flank.

"Dig in," I told him.

Dig in he did.

I found myself trying to cop a better peek, through the glass
tabletop, of the spot where the front of the robe fell open
slightly at the top of his thigh. I imagined he was too much of
a gentleman to have put on that cummy jock again after having
showered, so I entertained myself by visualizing how his loose
genitals would be positioned, given the way his legs were
crossed.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Glen asked, repeatedly dipping a
finger of toast into soft egg yolk. (More smutty innuendo?)

"I'm a chef," I explained, exhaling smoke over my shoulder, "I
make it a point never to put food on an empty stomach. Coffee
and Dunhills are all I need until about four in the afternoon.
But enough about me, Glen. How about you reconciling that shy--
PASSED OUT-- young man from last night with your little diva
number in the kitchen a while ago..."

"Well, I *do* like to keep a guy on his toes," Glen let me know
with a smirk, "Last night in the bar you were so cute and
earnest-- so 'adolescent' with all that thigh-pressing and
meaningful glances bullshit. Basically, I let you think you
were charming my drunken pants off, which of course you were.
Soon as I had you sized up, I thought I'd relax and pound a few
shots. But all that scotch didn't really kick in until we got
here."

To nobody in particular, staring into the garden, he added, "I
do believe I may be losing my tolerance for malt, " he
shuddered in mock horror, "God--what a thought!"

Glen started to return his attention to his fruit salad, but he
looked up and caught my eye, suddenly serious. His spoon
suspended in midair between us, he asked "Would you believe it?
The whole time you were blowing me, I was chokin' back major
puke-o-rama?"

"I've been known to have that effect on people," I ventured
somewhat icily; astonished to note that he could use an
expression like 'puke-o-rama' and then immediately knock back a
big spoonful of yoghurt and diced mango. Glen might have been
every day of twenty-five, but I was beginning to believe I'd
encountered the world's oldest living fourteen yearold.

I smoked another cigarette and drank that all-important second
cup of coffee, watching him finish eating, wondering where this
was going to go. I didn't have long to wait. Glen dabbed his
mouth with the napkin and stood up with a demure burp, casually
brushing a few crumbs from the front of the robe.

Still chewing the last bit of his toast, he stretched
provocatively and asked, "Got any Ivory Snow? I'm going to go
rinse out my jock."

My throat tightened in panicked reflex. "The HELL you are!" I
blurted out, startling myself with the coarse, drill-sergeant
tone I'd suddenly adopted. But mostly, I was mortified that
he'd so off-handedly consider desecrating it that way--now that
our blended essenses had embellished it to near-perfection. I
would have been more inclined to display it in a glass case.

I'm far too much of a muffin to be very convincing at the whole
authoritarian schtick, but nevertheless, Glen was taken aback.
"What do you mean?" he asked, eyes squinting under a furrowed
brow, "I think I'd rather wear it damp--than like this..." He
drew the crusty jock out of the pocket of the robe with the
tips of his fingers, holding it with his arm outstretched, as
though he had a dead fish by the tail. I had to look away to
maintain my composure.

"I mean..." I said, deftly recovering, "I mean I've got a whole
slew of 'em.  You can have your pick of the litter!" I stood
up, indifferent to the obvious outline of my plump, but spongy
dick where it protested against my jeans. I strode over to the
carved oak armoire and pulled both massive doors open. Of the
two rows of drawers I revealed, I chose one of the larger ones
near the bottom.  Pulling it all the way out, I carried it back
to the table where the light was better. I put the drawer-full
of jocks on the floor between our chairs and waited while Glen
put a cd into the player. I was beguiled by the easy way he
made himself at home.

Now, I've got lots of friends (of whom some even claim to be
gay, it saddens me to say) whose idea of 'enough' underwear
would fit into one standard dresser drawer. Worse, if they own
a jock at all, they only wear it a couple of times a year for
pickup touch-football or Sunday afternoon frisbee.  I pity
folks like that; the way you pity a passed-out wino.

It's not like I actually wear a jock myself very often--I have
an almost exclusive allegiance to white department store
y-fronts, in and out of the sack. Truth is, the reason I keep
such a comprehensive pile of jocks around is because almost
nothing turns me on more than messing with a man who's wearing
one.

Lamentably few casual acquaintances these days come
pouch-equipped and they sure don't stock them at the Seven
Eleven, so it behooves a cat to keep a few nice ones tucked
away. Sure, I know, 'straps will become the fetish du jour from
time to time, but you just can't lay store in the caprices of
public taste: diligent foresight is everything to the serious
cup queen. Glenny was shaping up, in my fondest imaginings, as
someone whose penchant for nutnets might just mesh with mine,
so to speak. I was itching to see his reaction to my stash.

Glen chose to play John Coltrane's, 'Impressions'.  "Excellent
choice," I muttered, as the drums and piano began those
lurching, complex opening bars of 'My Favorite Things'.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Glen in a trailing tone. But it wasn't the
strident tone of 'Trane's soprano sax joining the rhythm
section that made him say it--he'd spied my box of goodies. He
dropped to his knees in front of the multicolored assortment of
pouches, cups and posing straps like he was a pilgrim at some
roadside shrine. He gawked up at me, speechless. I saw how the
flush of awe had darkened his cheeks and became pretty sure he
was mine.

"Like I said, pick any one you like. All my serious favorites
are uh...  elsewhere."

Whistling low, Glen leaned forward and ran his fingers through
the tangle of dick mitts like it was pirate treasure. He spent
some minutes clucking to himself and rooting around, gradually
narrowing his options to only a couple.  By the time the
'Trane's second soprano solo was over, Glen had more or less
made his choice.

"Are these all yours?" Glen asked. Not really such a stupid
question if you know me.

"Well, some of them *used* to be other peoples'" I couldn't
resist a smirk. I thought back on a certain salmon fisherman
posessed of seemingly limitless endurance, who'd kept my feet
in the air for the better part of a long weekend. He'd been the
previous tenant of the tumeric-yellow Bike classic Glen was
examining that very minute; its slack pouch bulging
lasciviously only a few inches from his freshly shaved face.

"Like it?" I cooed.

"Cool color," Glen made a fist and punched the cup as though he
were tenderizing a new baseball glove.

"Custom-dyed it myself... it's starting to fade a bit, though.
Try it on!" (hope, hope, hope)

"Sure!" (whew...)

Glen turned his back to me and stepped into the jock like a
stripper in reverse. I didn't even get a peek at his peaches
when he lined up the legstraps because he didn't bend over far
enough for the back of the robe to ride up that high. He took
an inordinate amount of care arranging his package. Then at
last, with a final, resolute snap of the waistband, he gathered
up the flaps of the robe and brought them together in front of
him. He spun on one heel and faced me, his arms across his
chest like someone in a straight-jacket, each hand grasping one
flap of the robe.

"Okay...." Glen winked at me; in that corny, burlesque way
Clark Kent always used to wink at the reader in the last panel
of a Superman comic.

"Ready?" The bugger was obviously set on milking the moment for
every spare iota of suspense.

Finally: "Ta-DA!!" He flashed the robe wide open; arms and robe
spread out like wings. Except for the questioning tilt of his
bushy eyebrows, his expression was absolutely deadpan when he
asked, "does it look alright?"

I could barely speak. If my marathon man of a salmon fisherman
had packed that yellow pouch with more cock than Glen did, he
certainly hadn't framed it any better. I swallowed hard.

"Looks are secondary," I lied, "How does it feel?"

He dropped his arms and pondered the question; placing one bare
foot on the other and staring into space with that earnest,
faraway expression of a dilettante at a wine tasting.

"Like my bag's being held in a soft, warm hand," said Glen
finally, gabbing one of his asscheeks roughly with each palm,
using them to push his pelvis out slightly.

"Then it can't look anything *but* good." I assured him.

A major understatement. At that moment, Glen was a vision that
would have made Mother Teresa squishy-- that wide, striped
waistband holding snug to his smooth, acute pelvic ridge and
his cotton-clad genitals plumping the loose-knit, pliable
fabric. His flaccid cock was obvious in the arrangement. It
angled downwards, slightly to the left, giving his package an
appearance that was, at once, lewd and yet somehow also
innocent-looking. On impulse, he pinched the legbands, pulled
them very tight and then let them snap back onto his ass in
tandem. The report was loud enough to get the attention of
Onan, the cat, who'd been licking his memories on the window
sill.

Glen's left hand and most of the fingers of his right had
progressed to some obscene, hidden baton twirling behind the
stretched pouch. I could see the tip of his knob: a large bulge
standing out and away from a turbulent cotton sea of smaller
bulges that were his ruffling knuckles between his balls and
the taut fabric. I silently cursed all Corsican waiters in the
name of the one who'd borrowed my camera.

"I think I'll take it!" he declared, adding (a little too
diffidently for it to have been genuine) "..that is, if the
offer's still good."

"Ah... Monsieur has such enlightened tastes." I lisped,
clasping my hands and fluttering my lashes in a vague
caricature of an effeminate Parisian haberdasher. Glen's
generous reaction to my stupid antic was four bars of angelic
smile. That sent an express message to my almost-hard dick, and
the message was: boing.

Elegantly, like a jungle cat, Glen rolled his shoulders and
expanded his downy chest, arms at his sides. Thus, he allowed
the white terry robe fall away, otherwise unaided. I stepped
backwards a few paces when it fell. I wanted a better vantage
point from which to take in the entire hot tableau of Glen
standing, lean and freshly pouched, between me and the
shimmering sunlight beating down on the panes of the french
doors behind him. But he had other ideas.

Impishly, he sashayed his concave asscheeks over to the
full-length mirror on the outside of the closet door and began
to pose for himself. He stood innocently enough at first,
examining himself in three-quarters profile, standing as
modestly as his sexy attire would permit. But within a few
seconds he'd begun to make fuck faces at himself, pantomiming
rude parodies of the expressions one sees on the models in the
slicker newsstand smut. My furcub clearly had a capacity for
play that he'd barely hinted at ten hours before. As if
oblivious to my presence, he half-squatted with his back to the
mirror and peered between his legs at the refection of his
spread cheeks, each bisected by a diagonal yellow leg band.

I was losing it. I'd been rubbing my plumping log through my
jeans and I knew from that familiar coolness that it'd begun to
drool. I unbuttoned my fly and reached in to form a ring just
below my cotton-clad dickhead with my thumb and index finger.
My cock flexed its gratitude as I applied light friction to the
ridge of my glans, inspired by Glen's horny preoccupation with
his own reflection. I must have made some kind of sound;
probably something pathetic and needy.

Giggling, Glen straightened himself up and strode over to me,
bounding on and off the futon like it wasn't there.

"Well, well," he said, when he saw me withdraw my hand from my
fly. He grabbed me by the wrists and said in a clipped,
businesslike tone, "C'mon guy, let's you and me get ourselves
horizontal," mocking, exactly, my words and timbre of the
previous night.

"Do I really talk like Rodney Dangerfield?" I asked, feigning
petulance.

"A little. I'm just glad you don't *look* like Rodney
Dangerfield," Glen offered, along with another knee-capping
smile. He drew me nearer, backwards toward my bed.

"Well then, show me some respect," I told him, when his heels
stopped their backwards shuffling at the edge of the futon. My
damp, white bulge poked out my open fly and met the vertical,
mesh-encased sausage that was Glen's cock. I stared into his
clear emerald eyes, their pupils contracted to pinpoints by the
brilliant sunshine. Every time I leaned in to press my dick
against his with just a little more pressure, Glen would pull
his butt backards denying me the contact I craved.

"You are one hot, PRICK TEASING, little fuck." I moved in to
kiss him. There was a fleeting moment when it seemed like he
might only offer me the curved nape of his neck, like the
willing victim of a vampire; but at the last possible instant,
Glen deked his face sideways and lined his mouth up with mine.
Eyes wide open, he clamped onto my open lips with a great,
urgent sucking.

I'd never been on the receiving end of a kiss that conveyed so
much so quickly.  Glen drew my surprised, flaccid tongue into
his mouth as far as it would go, sucked on it twice and then
rammed it back into my mouth with his own; jabbing randomly at
my back teeth for a couple of seconds before abruptly pulling
off me. It was my turn to say "Whoa!"

Grinning, he let himself fall backwards onto the futon, locking
my gaze.  Propping himself up on his elbows, Glen splayed his
bent knees, giving me a lewd flash of his fuzzy nether regions.
Random pubes stuck out from all sides of the jock's soft pouch,
in exquisite contrast to the stretched saffron cotton and his
pale, lean inner thighs. The sides of the stressed mesh could
barely contain those heroic nuts of his-- the exaggerated twin
orbs brought side by side by the gentle insistence of elastic
fabric. The tip of Glen's cock formed damp, mesh-covered knob
that protruded aggressively upwards and outwards, in front of
the waistband.  The inverted V, where the golden legbands met
at the gathered base of the pouch, made a perfect frame for his
upturned crack. Glen's hole itself was obscured by a forest of
light fur, but I had a brief, vivid recollection of how that
hidden pucker had spasmed on the tip of my tongue the night
before.

He cocked a supercillious eyebrow, leering like one of the
pin-ups he'd been aping a few moments before. "Want this?" he
purred rhetorically, willing his cock to perform three
volultary pulses in the jock, as if I needed clarification of
what he'd meant by 'this'.

By way of an answer, I dropped my jeans and stepped out of
them; proudly boned in my bleached jockey classics. My cock lay
off to one side, throbbing gratefully in somewhat gentler
confines. I pinched along its outline through the soft cotton,
felt the spreading blot of lube near the swollen tip. Reaching
in past the waistband, I laid my hot stick on the vertical and
squeezed a clear pearl onto my fingertips before snapping the
elastic waistband back over it. I palmed my dick against my
belly as I twiddled one of my tits with my precum-moistened
thumb and forefinger.  Every so often I'd move my hand away to
give Glen a different view of my cock and the various ways it
tented the front of my briefs.

Glen was pinching the tip of his own clothbound hardon and
licking his lips as he watched the show. "That looks good
enough to eat," he observed.

Now, it might have only been the kind of cuddly, gratuitous
remark one makes in these situations, but I took it as an
invitation to become lunch.  Ever since meeting him, I'd
visualized Glen's face planted on a pair of my whites. I
staddled Glen's form, still gripping my dick through the supple
material. I decided I just had to find out if he was as fond of
chewing bone through cotton as I was. Besides, I figured he
owed me a bit of mouthwork after the inspired, unrequited
blowjob I'd laid on him the previous night.

I traveled Glen's length until I stood astride his lean, furred
chest. Like an elevator car that's been cut from its cables, I
dropped into a squat over him, catching myself just before the
point of contact. The front of my briefs only a couple inches
from his face, Glen excited me all the more when he sniffed the
air in front of him hungrily, without any pretense or subtlety.
I tried to image what he was inhaling: a freshly bathed and
jockeyed me always exuded hints of my shower soap and fabric
softener. But recent events would have added to the mix the
acrid pungency of newly generated sweat and that unmistakable
musk of imperative need.

I felt Glen pass his warm hands into the rear of my briefs,
palming a globe in each. He pulled my crotch closer to his face
and traced a long, dry trail along the underside of my cock
through the fabric with the tip of his tongue, taking full
measure of my stick of cotton candy. When he came to the cleft
of my glans he drilled his quivering tongue-tip into its
depression, causing me to flinch from the directness of his
approach.  Apparently pleased with himself at my reaction, Glen
tittered softly before swallowing my whole jockey-covered
cockhead, bathing it with an abundance of warm spit while he
teased the ridge with his bared front teeth. I couldn't look at
him-- it was all I could do to keep from feeding him a wad
right then, using my briefs pouch to seive the goo.

All my fidgeting and gasping must have clued Glen in to the
fact that I was on too much of a hair-trigger. He just had to
stop all that dickhead munching, and I would have told him so
if I'd been capable of speech. I caught some much-need breath
when he finally eased off my glans and focused on my slightly
less sensitive shaft, mouthing it like a kid eating a cob of
corn. He must have known how near I'd been to shooting, because
when I looked down at him again I could swear he was trying to
grin at me with a wet mouthful of my bone. Glen's face
glimmered with smeared spit; in fact, I marveled at the amount
of saliva he was producing.  He fairly slathered my steamy
crotch-- noisily, with a lot of smacking and erratic, snorking
breaths. I could only close my eyes, rub his sexy spikey-haired
head and hum my encouragement (while I tried desperately to
remember the names of all my primary school teachers, in
chronological order).

Evidently satisfied that I wasn't going split any time soon,
Glen withdrew one hand from the back of my briefs and I could
feel the telltale friction of his upper arm against my inner
thigh as he began rubbing his own cock. Once he'd darkened the
fabric that defined the position of my dick, Glen turned his
lapping to my aching balls. I lowered myself onto his face to
better accomodate him, bringing his firm, strong chin hard up
against my perineum while he laminated my nuts with saturated
cotton.

Glen's free hand in the back of my jockeys had recently
graduated to exploring the length of my crack. He started out
gently, exploring my entire cleft, but by the time he'd soaked
my bag completely, one lube-less fingertip was already probing
insistently at my asshole. Not that I was the slightest bit
adverse to having Glen diddle my hole-- for the rest the day,
if that was how he wanted it-- but I needed a faceful of man
and I needed it now.

Pulling away from him, I swung a leg around so that my soaked,
throbbing briefs hung directly over Glen's face. I rudely
yanked his jacking hand off the front of his jock and replaced
it with my own, grabbing his modest tool to define the dickhead
against the jock's taut mesh. Clear dickdrool oozed through the
weave when I squeezed his shaft. He moaned. Who wouldn't?

Glen pulled my crotch down onto his face just as I was clamping
my lips around his pouched knob. His finger, now mercifully
slickened with his spit, once again poked at my hole. He'd
exposed my balls by pushing my jockeys aside and was giving
them a noisy punching-bag workout with his nose and flailing
tongue as they dangled above him. My untended prick throbbed in
its damp, clinging prison out of sheer joy.

Sensing that I had all of Glen's sweet dew sucked from the
fabric sheathing his cockhead, I decided to go straight to the
source: I yanked his dick out of the side of the pouch, its
crimson tip shiny with slime. Taking only the smallest part of
his glans in my mouth, I began to play my tongue sideways
across the pursed lips of his piss slit in a vigorous thrumming
motion. That excess prompted Glen to gobble up both my nuts
with one great muffled croak of lust.  He reached into the leg
of my drawers again and extracted my wet cock, beginning to
jack it in short, erratic, vibrator-like flurries. Despite his
new interest in my dick, Glen never let up vigorously
finger-fucking me, using the torque of his entire forearm.

I felt unable to resist launching a full-scale assault on those
massive stones of Glen's a second longer, so I treated his
bared cockhead to a half-dozen perfunctory visits to my
esophagus, then abruptly lifted off it, relishing its turgid
backflip onto his flat, fuzzy tum. One of Glen's balls had
already escaped the jock and was hanging suspended against his
inner thigh.  I peeled back the taut curtain of mesh and the
other one tumbled out like a bungie diver; coming to rest, with
an noticable bounce, next to its mate. I gathered up the loose
scrotal skin between Glen's nuts and his crotch and squeezed.
His cock jumped involuntarily as his balls protruded from my
tightened fist; the stretched, hairy skin that covered them
shining from the snugness of my grip.  I descended on them with
a husky growl, jamming them both into my mouth like Glen was
Siamese twins, joined at the dickhead.

The refined chaos of sixties jazz pouring from the stereo's
speakers formed the perfect soundtrack for our thrashing. Glen
and I rolled around wildly, on and off the futon in our
enthusiasm-- shifting positions every few seconds, but rarely
letting go the mouthlock we had on each others' cloth-encased
cocks and free-hanging cum factories.

Without really even thinking about it, I'd begun to mirror the
fingerfucking Glen was giving me in his own tight hole. The
juncture of his jock's legstraps rubbed against the backs of my
knuckles as I repeatedly plunged the entire length of two
fingers into his depths. I abandoned eating his balls and sat
back on my heels next to him, absently watching myself jack his
cock with one hand and rummaging around in his upturned ass with
the other.

I was relieved that Glen sensed I thought a short breather was
in order. He pulled one of my pubes from between his teeth and
looked up at me with an indecent grin. Inside his anus, my two
fingers were indolently curling and uncurling in that gesture
universally understood to mean 'come here'. Temporarily
deprived of access to my butt, Glen reached inside the pee hole
of my briefs and extracted my dripping cock, easily falling in
synch with the gentle rhythm of wanking I was treating him to.

Now, I knew both our asses were twitching to be plugged with
something more substantial than a couple of spitty digits, but
I wanted to ascertain exactly what Glen's wants were, the
better to fulfill them. As much as I wanted to be 'first'-- to
have his spare, but randy, poker sliding into me-- I also
fancied he felt ready for some bowel stretching. Rather than
search around for a coin to flip, I opted for the direct
approach: "Do you want me to fuck you?" I wondered out loud.

"After all that pinky pokin'? You fuckin' well BETTER!" said
Glen, shaking his head in disbelief and breaking into a low
chuckle that dripped with sarcasm; as if he'd just discovered
he'd been doing foreplay with the doziest faggot west of the
Rockies. He reached down between his legs and tugged at my
forearm. I took the hint, and extracted my gooey fingers from
his ass. I could only watch, spellbound, as Glen gracefully
rolled over. He placed one side of his face flat on the pillow
and raised his lean, furry rump high in the air, in that
classic pose of eager submission.

Arresting as that perspective of a man's body can be at any
time, I found the visual enhancement of his 'new' jock's bright
yellow legstraps, twisted up by our recent exertions,
absolutely stupifying.  For a some minutes I guess, I just lost
myself in slack-jawed appreciation of it and unconsciously
pulled on my pud. By the time I returned to the here and now,
Glen had packed his goods back into the jock and was already
stroking his own cock in anticipation of my bone.

"Well?" he called over his shoulder.

I smiled to myself. Impatient to get sweaty-- I like that in a
bottom.

I reached into the small wooden chest next to the bed and
grabbed the tube of lube. Once again hauling my goods out of a
leghole, I squeezed a generous blob of the clear fuck-jelly
onto my dickhead and whipped it into a slick, frothy paste;
blending it with my precum and Glen's endless studspit.

I'd have loved to spend some time snacking on the black
candyfloss that lined Glen's crevice first, but I'd already
been to the edge of cumming a few times in the last half hour
and I knew an oral detour to his holy-of-holies could only end
with me squirting onto the backs of his calves. So I sidled up
to him on my knees until my slicked-up cock was poised.
Scooping up some spare lube from where it had matted in my
pubes, I applied it to Glen's hole.

He met my fingers with a sexy, wriggling backward thrust of his
torso. His back and elbow shook in mute evidence of the
pounding he was laying on his cock. A couple of seconds later I
was slipping my glans past Glen's anal ring. I threw myself
into the task of finding that magic, elusive tempo of anal
thrusting-- the one we could both live with for the longest
possible time. With both hands, I grabbed the back of the
saffron waistband for leverage as I jack-hammered Glen's
prostate, pulling the elastic several inches away from his
hunched, heaving back.

As I pistoned, my glazed eyes happened to fall on the white
terrycloth robe where it had fallen next to the futon. In a
rush of lustful recollection, I noticed that the cummy jock
Glen had worn the previous evening was still half-sticking out
of the pocket. I released one hand's grasp of Glen's waistband
and scooped up the funky pouch. I brought it to my face and
inhaled deeply, the impact of its secret vapors causing my
cockhead to swell with glee somewhere in the depths of Glen's
bowels. With a muffled, animal growl, I stuffed as much of that
spunky mesh into my mouth as it would hold. My senses on
overload, I fell into a frenzy of thrusting so violent that it
demanded Glen let go of his cock and brace himself on the bed
both palms. The rabbit-punch thuds of my belly slamming against
his cheeks caused lovely rhythmic undulations that followed the
curve of his fur-dusted rump and disappeared up his back.

I knew I would be a instant goner if I kept that pace up for
more than a couple of minutes, so I tried to slow down a bit
and turned my attention to Glen's goods. Still systematically
saturating that mouthful of Bikeburger, I reached around him
and jammed my hand down the front of his jock.  Bypassing his
dick altogether, I clenched his nuts and as much of that loose
scrot as I could hold.  The web that had held them stretched
warm and damp across the back of my hand.

Glen moaned at the pressure on his balls and, as though his
dick would accept whatever contact was forthcoming, he began to
urgently fuck my inner forearm. He was evidently much closer to
spunking than I'd thought. Glen's 'oof-oof-oof'-- in
rock-steady 4/4 time with my thrusting, was getting louder by
the second.  His vocalizations stopped abruptly with one final
gasp and I felt the urgent twitching of his cock against the
inside of my forearm signal the arrival of his orgasm. I
gripped his balls still tighter inside the pouch of the yellow
jock. Pulling him upwards, I mashed his primed and ready dick
against his furry belly. He groaned as he spunked. I thrilled
to the three forceful blasts of hot, wet jizz as they flooded
the crook of my elbow, simultaneous to the contractions Glen's
sphincter was making at the root of my dick.

That, and the cool sensation of Glen's load dribbling along my
inner forearm was enough to bring me to the point of no return,
despite the fact that I'd stopped all thrusting when Glen began
his climax. I could feel my cockhead beginning to pulse.
Recklessly chancing one last withdrawl, I pulled almost all the
way out. I treated myself to a quick look at my slimy cock,
gleaming in the bright mid-morning sunshine, with Glen's
jelled-up crack hairs plastered to the base of it in several
curly, wet cowlicks.

A charming vista, but I had no time-- I plunged back in with
everything I had and put all my weight onto Glen's back,
causing him to flatten onto the futon with a grunt. His dick
still pulsing at my forearm, I unleashed seemingly endless
torrents sperm into Glen's churning gut. Halfway through my
climax, I spit Glen's last-night jock onto the back of his neck
and accompanied my spunking with a such a florid, eccumenical
barrage of curses that Glen turned his head and eyed me
quizzically, spent and disoriented as he was.

Finally drained myself, the wracking spasms ebbing, I began to
be acutely aware of the fact that the hiked legband of my
y-fronts, forgotten in all our thrashing about, was chafing a
deep and painful furrow into my crotch under my exhausted
weight.

With a sigh of profound regret, I pulled my softening dick out
of Glen's dripping ass, eliciting a shudder from him. I rolled
onto my back, as did he, and lay spread-eagled, panting like a
spaniel. Without opening my eyes, I slid the damp, sticky
jockeys off and tossed them blindly towards the foot of the
bed, making a mental note to baggie those babies the instant
they dried, for future amusement.

Still too messed up for conversation, we just lay there, alone
together.  In another touching gesture, reminiscent of the one
the night before, Glen broke my solitude after some long
moments went by. He grasped my spunky palm and clumsily
interlocked his fingers with mine, like we were five yearolds
lining up for a fire drill.

"Awesome, man," he said finally, "but my plane takes off in
three hours and I still have to pick up a bunch of shit at the
hotel."

'So much for having to call in sick for work,' I thought to
myself. I'd have done that without a second thought, if it had
turned out Glen still had some time on his hands.

We don't live in a very happy world; it's easy to get cynical.
But I was beginning realize that, his inherent goofiness aside,
Glen was quite possibly a member of that most under-appreciated
fraternity-- the Nice Guy. That he had a wife back in Ontario
diminished that impression only a little.

Glen's whisper in my ear as he ruffled my sticky pubes: "So, do
you ever get to Toronto?"

"Only for weddings and funerals..."

"Well, the next time you do, you gotta look me up!  Plenty of
room for overnight company," I opened my eyes to see that he
was leering across at me letcherously.

"Sure, that sounds gr...." I was going to say, until it hit me.
"Hey! Wait a minute! What about the little woman?" I asked him,
punching him on the biceps, a little harder than I meant to. I
was stymied how anyone, even someone with *his* balls, could
offer to put up an out-of-town fuck buddy-- in the marital
home!

"What little woman?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Your wife, you phoney little pisher! What's this?" I grasped
him roughly by the wrist of the hand that was toying with my
bush and shook it in front of his face accusingly. I couldn't
resist a condescending smirk.

"It's a ring. Used to be my dad's. You think I'm married?" he
broke into a toothy grin, crossed his eyes and cocked his
eyebrows at an angle that said: 'What me, married?'He made as
if to speak again, but I cut him off.

"Don't even *try* to hand me a line of shit, I warned
him, "Seepy told me about how you went on and on about your
honeymoon!"

"Oh! The BARTENDER!" Glen broke up laughing; throwing his head
back in a braying guffaw as a tidal wave of understanding
washed over him. I watched his adam's apple bounce before his
pointed, upturned chin and stifled the urge to calmly lean over
and start licking it.

"You want something known in that bar, you tell Seep'," I told
him, when the volume of his laughter diminished to the point
where I thought he might actually hear me. I waited for him to
calm down enough to explain his philandering self.  I wasn't
pissed that he'd avoided discussion of his marital status-- you
get used to that-- I was pissed that he'd apparently thought I
was stupid.

"Boy did you get a wrong number!' Glen said finally, gasping
and wiping tears away with the back of his arm. "I just handed
him that load of crap about my honeymoon to get him to stop
hitting on me. I can see why they call him 'Seepy'! Does he
always drool like that?"

I pictured it in my head as I'd seen it in life: Seepy leaning
over the bar into the face of some recently-legal,
boy-next-door type, using that tired old 'is that something in
your eye?' gambit.

"I mean, it's not that he's unattractive or anything," Glen
went on, "he was just trying too hard. I told him a bunch of
stuff about my vacation down in Mexico last winter and just
made up a wife to go with it. Actually, I went south with my
aunt and me dear old widowed mum." Glen started tittering.
"Pretty oedipal, huh?" he added, breaking up laughing all over
again.

This time I joined him.

END


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